


Scattershot

by Boggy



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Awkward Romance, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Matchmaking, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23496190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boggy/pseuds/Boggy
Summary: Snapshot series of Din's recurring visits to Sorgan throughout Seasons 1+. Canon compliant (as possible).
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Winta (Star Wars), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 74





	1. Incident 1 - Slip of the Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Just testing the waters here. I would normally steer clear of writing fic for a series as new as _The Mandalorian_ (so as to avoid potentially conflicting canon), but the DinxOmera feels are REAL and we have a while to wait before Season 2 pops (at which point Omera BEST RETURN because this is as OTP as OTP gets) and my fandom sensibilities are having none of it.
> 
> Stories are mostly(?) canon-compliant. Some creative liberty taken with timelines and reunion of characters given we’re only at Season 1 and I have literally no idea where the series goes from here. I do include Cara in these considering she’s all but guaranteed to make a re-appearance in later eps. and let’s face it, she’s one of the only decent female characters we’ve seen (I would say in _Star Wars_ , but in anything really) in a good, long while. I'd originally posted this exclusive at my [Tumblr blog](http://plainrea.tumblr.com/), but broke down and decided to share this with the audience here at AO3.
> 
> Loving the use of common nouns for describing so many of the series characters. Also loving Din’s awkwardness with…everything that doesn’t involve guns. Like, major LOL at the lovesick derpness in his every interaction with Omera. I didn’t realize a man without a face could *heart eyes* so much. xD
> 
> Sorry for rattling. Please enjoy.

## Incident 1 - Slip of the Tongue

It was Cara’s fifth tankard of spotchka and a rapidly increasing awareness of numbness in his left leg when it struck Din—they spent _way_ too much time loitering outside the doorway of Omera’s house.

There was no good reason for it, really. As was true of every not-entirely-necessary swing by Sorgan, he and Cara were given lodging in the widow’s barn. It was quiet, warm, and no more or less accommodating than any of the other heaps of sticks that passed for housing in the village proper. Anything of any real value he kept on his person at all times, or stashed on the ship. And given Omera knew as much about the Child, the “Jedi,” and nonsensical Force _whatever_ as he did—which was to say, virtually nothing—her usefulness to his cause was unequivocally in the negative digits.

Yet here they were. 

Cara didn’t mind. They had crossed paths off and on in recent months, and had taken to traveling together after the Alderaanian’s complaints of boredom and bad pay, and Din’s lack of accomplishing, well… _anything_. The Mandalorian, for his part, just wasn’t all too sure what _to_ do. He’d been crapshooting it as he went and was flat out of ideas as to his next move. With nowhere to turn and a suit of beskar growing heavier with each passing day, he’d punched in the (embarrassingly) familiar coordinates and parked the Razor Crest—and his armored keister—on the woodsy banks of the biggest skug hole this side of the Outer Rim.

If their aimless loafing bothered the widow, it didn’t show. She welcomed them in with the same warm, unassuming smile that seemed, in his presence anyway, a near-permanent fixture on her face. It was a smile that captured his eyes, lingering but a moment, before casting downward to the pair of womp rats rolling and giggling about the floor at their feet.

Watching Winta and the Child play was oddly therapeutic. There was a wholesome ease to it, their laughter and coos as natural and automatic as drawing breath. It felt almost…fated, if he dared use the word, as if their coming together had simply _always been_. His child and Omera’s—so different and yet somehow, so similar—clapping and wriggling and laughing goofily brought a smile to the Mandalorian’s face that he was certain shone straight through the covering of his beskar helm.

“Can we go outside to play?” The little girl’s voice was pleading, her head bouncing between his and her mother’s faces, needing the permission of both parties to traverse out-of-doors.

With feeling that made his chest tight, his gaze met Omera’s who, with that same warm, soul-shattering smile, nodded her consent. Din responded with a modulated “sure” of his own.

Gathering up the Child in her arms, Winta dashed out the door, her elbows brushing lightly against the armor of his leg as she ran past. The merriment of the moment was not lost on the trio of adults, even the ex-shock trooper turned merc whose gaze trailed after the kids with a gentle smirk. She raised her glass in a silent toast, throwing back the last of her spotchka and slamming the tankard hard on top of a nearby wooden crate.

“Good stuff.”

Whether it was the wholesomeness of the moment or the booze, the Mandalorian couldn’t say. He rolled his eyes for good measure all the same.

“Meant to be, in a strange way.”

 _That_ pertained to the children, he knew. And it startled Din just how closely Omera’s thoughts converged with his own.

Perhaps it was that very disorientation that he blurted out his next words.

“Our children. Like brother and sister.”

The heat flooded his face as soon as he’d said it. He hadn’t really meant it the way it sounded—that was what he kept repeating to himself in his head, at least—to imply that Winta and the Child were _theirs,_ in a cooperative, unified sense. His was an objective observation; yet it had come across in perhaps his most embarrassing misspeak with the widow to date. 

He wondered if the kid had some mud he could bury his head under.

There had been no immediate response to his remark, and part of him wondered if it was he and he alone who’d caught the mortifying flub of speech. But one peek glance at Omera, whose head had lowered in an effort to conceal a light flush, and Cara, who looked to be weighing whether she’d heard right or was indeed _that_ drunk, confirmed that no, his words had rang loud and clear.

“That is to say… I didn’t…”

Din stopped himself short, fearful of digging himself any bigger a hole than he already had.

“I should check on the kid.”

And with that, he half-tripped down the small, stair drop-off and turned to the direction of his ship, ignoring what he knew were half-tipsy Cara sniggers trailing his tail.

One thing was certain—his next trip to Sorgan would be a long, _long_ ways off.


	2. Incident 2 - Matchmakers (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The villagers see it. And decide to give their new Mandalorian friend a helpful... _push_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me again.
> 
> Just by eyeballing the fic, I think this is pretty close in length to the first one. Which is what I’m aiming for with these shorts. Nothing too drawn out or involved. Just enough that I don’t over-complicate what’s there but enough to expound on the material we’ve been given. I have a follow-up to this fic planned (since I wasn’t able to squeeze in everything I wanted with one short) to be posted…soon. Man, these are fun.
> 
> I do wonder, watching the show, if Mando is aware ( ~~the answer is no, he isn’t~~ ) of how “kinda obvious” he is, even with a giant metal bucket masking his face. Like SRSLY. The dude wears his heart on his beskar. And not just with Omera. It’s no wonder he’s on the receiving end of so much grief.
> 
> Also, Sorgan is #mandomera as well. I have spoken.

## Incident 2 - Matchmakers (Part 1)

He’d thought their behavior a little _off_ , but dismissed it as a side effect of the planet’s murky summer heat.

Krill farming wasn’t what anyone would call a “glamorous profession.” The work was hard, the hours long. It took the cooperation of the entire village to reap a profitable harvest. And “profitable,” by Sorgan’s standards, meant enough coin to buy loom and cloth for clothes and supplies for patching up leaky roofs. 

There were never less than three, four farmers in the krill ponds at a time. So it came as quite a surprise when all the workers who’d left that morning returned…minus Omera. The widow had risen early—a strange and unspoken understanding that Winta, in addition to his own kid, was in the Mandalorian’s care—with breakfast ready and krill basket in hand for a productive day’s work. His gaze, acting as something of a tracking fob in its own right, followed her feminine frame as it glided out to the edges of the village proper, gracing him with one small, sweet smile before disappearing off into the swamps.

(It was some minutes later and a boisterous morning salute from Cara before he realized he was _still_ staring after her like an idiot.)

When her fellow farmers shuffled past that afternoon, one of them braced between the shoulders of two men and nursing what _appeared_ to be an unsteady foot, the Mandalorian’s senses kicked into high alert.

“It’s just a sprain,” the one villager explained. “Slipped out in the ponds.”

“Had to, uh, leave Omera behind though.” There was something funny, almost trepidatious in the other villager’s speech. “Chucked the catching baskets to help our friend.”

The lone female of the group, a woman he recognized but couldn’t identify by name, steadied the middle man with an outstretched arm and tossed their beskar-clad companion a pleading look. “Would you mind walking back and giving Omera a hand? I hate the thought of her lugging all those big, heavy harvest bins on her own.”

They didn’t have to ask the Mandalorian twice.

He’d shot out to the ponds to find Omera, peaceful and unaffected as she always was, gathering up the equipment her shift mates had cast aside. On spotting the Mandalorian, foreign to the krill pools as he was, her brow creased. He knew at once the question flashing behind her eyes.

“The children are fine,” he reassured her. Adding bluntly, “I saw what happened to the other farmer.”

“Oh,” she exhaled with motherly relief. “And yes. Anton hurt his ankle.”

“They said you’d need help carrying back the krill bins.”

At those words, the widow’s face phased from pleasant to perplexed. She’d looked at Din, then at the baskets near her feet, then back at Din again. Glancing down, the Mandalorian felt his features contorting to mirror the confusion in Omera’s own. The baskets, of which there were only _two_ , were empty…save for a few wriggling crustaceans at the bottom of the bins. Clearly, the day had yielded a poor harvest. Even more clearly was that Omera could have carried both baskets back with a blind eye and a broken arm, and by no means needed the assistance of _anyone_ , least of all a blaster-strapped, armor-wielding space hunter. 

The situation didn’t make much sense to Din. Why would the villagers implore his help for so pointless a task? The farmers of Sorgan worked hard. Back-breaking labor was par for the course. Clearing out Klatooinian raiders? Sure. He got that. But hauling around empty baskets of _straw_? 

_Whatever_ , he’d thought to himself. Din had found it was better _not_ questioning the random absurdities of life and to just take circumstances for what they were. Not much else he could do about it anyway. Besides, the detour was _more_ than worth it to watch Omera’s eyes fall prettily at his insistence that _he_ carry the load. And their trek back to village proper, quiet but companionable as they walked _not quite_ hand-in-hand but close enough that her dress swished against the coverings of his leg, worth more still.

Later that evening, Din caught sight of the man, “Anton,” moving along from hut to hut, waving friendly goodbyes to neighboring village folk settling themselves in for the night. A man gliding along, footing strong and arms swinging at his sides as he whistled a nameless tune across the dusty dirt path leading to his house.

Walking, sure and firm, on what the farmer had claimed was a “sprained foot.”

And at that very moment, the “injured” man caught Din’s gaze. And though it was hard to tell at that distance in the dark, the Mandalorian could have sworn the farmer’s face paled. His head ducked, his leg slacked, and he hurriedly heel-face-turned back from the direction he came, limping his left leg all along the way.

Din blinked inside his helmet, confused.

These krill farmers spent _way_ too much time out in the heat.


	3. Incident 3 - Matchmakers (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snapshot series of Din's recurring visits to Sorgan throughout Seasons 1+. Canon compliant (as possible).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m thinking this “matchmaker” series will be at least four parts. It’s just too easy throwing Din and Omera into awkward situations (Din being awkward by default), the outcomes of which are both endearing and delicious. This installment turned out a tad longer than the previous one, though I blame that on Din’s brain stammering and wandering and being totally unable to string together coherent thought.
> 
> This is also a bit more “romance-y” than the others, which I’m hoping satisfies all you #mandomera fans on the site. Please do let me know what you think.
> 
> P.S. Din is kinda childish/petty. And he definitely wouldn’t have gone the “life of a warrior” route without the whole, you know, murdering of his parents and getting adopted by a tribe of Mandos thing. Just sayin’.

## Incident 3 - Matchmakers (Part 2)

He’d be hard-pressed to admit it _out loud_ —not because he was ashamed, but because he’d never bloody hear the end of it—but Cara was unquestionably his best friend.

“Friendship” wasn’t exactly high priority on the list of “life’s necessities” for your run-of-the-mill “Mando.” There was the “tribe,” “courage,” “honor,” all fueled by a staunch and unwavering dedication to “The Way” that served as the religious “doctrine” by which his people fought and lived. Not that Mandalorians were opposed to “friendly communing” (even if “communing” in Mandalorian very often meant sparring or even ramming one’s skull into a concrete wall), but for a race of warriors there were any number of things—like armor, weapons, ammunition—that took precedence over one’s interpersonal standing with another.

Din couldn’t recall “friends” prior to his adoption into the tribe. And having been raised in the Fighting Corps with foundlings groomed specifically for combat and war, “finding friends” hadn’t been part of the Corps’ core curriculum. He knew of other Mandalorians on “good terms,” walking and talking and on occasion even bumping heads. Yet he himself had always been something of an outsider, even amongst his own clan. His boyhood had been wracked with pain at the loss of his parents, fear at the sight of gore and death, and near-crippling shyness in the presence of…basically anyone. Life had been very comfortable and sheltered _before_. The _after_ had left him tired and hurt, and he knew as well as he knew his own armor this was never a path he would have walked in life if given the opportunity to do something, _anything_ else.

But he’d been raised Mandalorian and made a vow to honor the creed. 

Still, his withdrawal from the Guild and decision to care for the enigmatic Child had awarded him glimpses of possibilities of life—ones without armor, without helmets, without blasters and blood and bacta spray yanking you back from the brink of death. One with a home and a bed and food you can eat at your leisure, without the worries of exposing your face or _galaxy help you_ gaining too much weight to fit inside your gear. One with a real, honest-to-goodness friend who will talk and laugh and watch your back, and doesn’t feel obligated to accede you out of respect for your “religious laws.”

With eyes moving almost entirely of their own accord, his gaze roved appreciatively over the delicate female cutting up krill and bread for the evening meal.

 _Maybe_ even one with dark hair, pretty dark eyes, and a warm body pressed against his own, filled with the promises of something precious and soul-shattering and what he once believed possible only in the secret, unspoken places of his dreams.

And even if those dreams remained dreams—every fiber of his soul hoped they wouldn’t—he’d at least have a face to lose himself in, a form he knew was tangible and alive and had for brief flashes in time shared space and a connection and fleeting moments of intimate touch.

 _(Stars end_ let them be real.)

Din carried on with his visual worshipping of the widow, oblivious to his surroundings…that is, until his eyes caught sight of Cara’s spotchka-laden smirk staring him down from his left peripheral.

Hell.

The only downside to his friendship with Cara was her—undeniably good-natured but still irritating—teasing at his expense. There had been little in the few, short months he’d known her that hadn’t spurned either an eyeroll or some goading remark, whether it be his “oh-so-dramatical” nature or the “so-ridiculously-Din” predicaments he got frequently suckered into. (That were not, _not_ his fault, dammit.) But nothing brought on the bemused snickering quite like the topic of Omera, who Cara had taken to calling his “comely krill wife.” 

(Which he admittedly liked the sound of. Except Cara bloody well knew it, and _that_ pissed him off.)

He shot her a glare he knew she couldn’t see, before turning his “nose” upward in a pointedly “ignoring” gesture to resume his admiration of Omera’s delicate shape. 

“All done,” the widow announced, wiping the residue of supper from her hands. She turned then, her body angling towards him with purpose and her eyes full of a kind of joy that made his heart skip.

“I’ll call the children.”

She’d taken all of two steps towards the door when suddenly, Cara’s hand languidly smacked at a broom-sized farming tool propped against the front of Omera’s house. It fell sideways across the door frame, plopping to the ground at Omera’s feet. The handle caught the widow’s ankle and she buckled forward in surprise, exhaling with an outcry of shock.

Consumed by panic, outrage, and an otherworldly, core-driven urge to _protect_ , Din launched forward, capturing the widow in his arms and pulling her to his armor with reflexes and agility he didn’t realize his beskar-plated body possessed. 

The world went silent for several long…seconds? Minutes? He wasn’t sure. All he could feel was Omera in his arms, form molded to his own as if she’d been divinely designed to fit there. And all he could see was her face, staring up at him with wide, brown eyes that shot straight through the covering of his helm into his brain (which probably looked like a heaping pile of Mandalorian mush). And all he could taste was the electricity-charged air between them, a magnificent heat pulsating up then down, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet.

A lone finger trailed the edges of his “jaw” and he felt tempted, not for the first time, to rip the helmet from his head and fling it off into the depths of Sorgan’s krill ponds.

He may have done just that too, if not for a chuckling “cough” jolting the Mandalorian back to reality—his brain still bouncing between starlight up in space—as his hands finally and regrettably unwrenched themselves from the widow’s lower back. She smiled in turn, something between grateful and a tad flushed, smoothing the crumpled front of her dress.

Cara watched from her trademark seating on the widow’s porch, a satisfied smirk peeking out from behind her third tankard of booze. Omera blinked prettily, and Din was grateful once again for the helmet that covered the flush of his face.

Truly, good friends were a damn hard thing to find.


	4. Incident 4 - Matchmakers (Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snapshot series of Din's recurring visits to Sorgan throughout Seasons 1+. Canon compliant (as possible).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yahaha! (I've been doing lots of Korok-hunting in BotW, if you couldn't tell.) It only took me _most of 2020_ to get here, but I _finally_ updated my original _The Mandalorian_ fic piece and as promised, it is a continuation of my "Matchmaker" storyline from Chapters 2 and 3. I don't want to give away too much, but suffice to say, the scene-stealing Winta plays a much bigger role this time around, to my own personal delight.
> 
> Also, for those of you reading/following my other _The Mandalorian_ works, you may find similarities/parallels between this and Chapter 2 of [Lost Stories of the Outer Rim](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23467375/chapters/56259916). In case I haven't mentioned it before, most of my Mando pieces fall within the same fic universe (excluding tributes and AUs), so look for foreshadowing of events within stories that take place earlier in the series timeline (like this one).
> 
> Apologies for the delay.

## Incident 4 - Matchmakers (Part 3)

Winta was a sweet kid.

His first visit on-world, she had stayed mostly in the peripheral of his recognition. She'd helped in looking after The Child, assuming a kind of "big sister" role in keeping him fed, entertained, and out of harm's way. Din couldn't say what, really, had gone on with the boy at the time, so preoccupied with weapons training, overseeing preparations, and securing the village border.

(And if he had taken an opportunity—or two—to _eyeball_ Omera along the way, well, that was between him and his shiny, beskar-plated bum.)

In visits since, he had come to regard the girl as less "Omera's kid," and more as just "Winta." (Though he'd be lying in saying belonging to Omera didn't earn her _significant_ bonus points over the other ankle-biters of the village.) Similarly, Winta was less contained, laughing and chatting in his presence, inquiring about his adventures, shoving the kid in his face whenever he did something "cute." She'd gotten playful too; running in circles outside the barn, "trailing him" in overgrowths of grass, tugging at the ends of his cape. Why, just that morning she'd ducked behind a trio of spotchka bins and "shot" at him with an imaginary blaster. Then she'd proceeded to barrel roll into the dirt in a fit of giggles, The Child waddling out from his own hiding space, all flailing arms and happy coos.

The domesticity of it hit him like a mudhorn gore to the gut.

Before The Child, Din had grown accustomed to the soundless isolation of space. He'd spent little time with the covert, serving as their tribe's "resident provider." And the few "outsider relationships" he'd forged had been borne out of professional necessity. Yet the care of a foundling had come with a near endless supply of misadventure, and a—surprising—motley assortment of allies and friends. He'd entertained more "social interaction" in the past few _months_ than he had the majority of his adult life.

His thoughts drifted then to Omera, recalling the warmth of her smile as she'd carried in food and a tanker of spotchka to the barn for their afternoon meal.

"Social interaction" definitely had its perks.

Lost in daydreams of their pretty host, he was some seconds registering Winta barreling towards him—little one tucked safely in the crook of her arm—hair whipping wildly in the wind behind her. She didn't look panicked _per se_ , but the urgency in her face was such that Din's Mandalorian senses immediately kicked into high alert.

"Mr. Mandalorian!" the little girl called, a bit breathless from her jaunt from across the ponds.

"Winta," he stepped forward, crouching on bended knee and holding out a hand to steady her as she skidded to an abrupt and bumbling halt. "Easy, now."

"It's Mama," she sputtered between heaves, the mention of her mother quickening his pulse. "She's in the barn. Sent me to come get you." With one last, big breath, she straightened to her full height, adjusting The Child to lean against the front of her chest. "Said she had somethin' important to tell you."

Din balked. "Something important?"

"You gotta go now," the girl circled around him and shoved at his back.

"O-okay…?" he stumbled to his feet at the minimal but determined force.

"And don't keep her waiting."

The Mandalorian turned and helmet-tilted at the command, brow creasing quizzically at the twin expressions of insistence on the children's faces.

Crazily enough, in that moment, they really _did_ look like brother and sister.

With one final press from Winta, Din took off for the barn. If Omera wished to speak in the privacy of his "lodge," then she must have had something of a "sensitive" nature to discuss, far away from the prying eyes and ears of the village.

Though it did strike him odd she'd sent her _daughter_ to fetch him, given he'd spoken with the widow in private earlier in the afternoon.

He racked his brain wondering what it was that could have transpired since.

Dutifully, Din entered the shanty and, sure enough, there was Omera, standing front-facing the far wall with arms folded and long, thick tendrils of hair draped in messy waves, her form-fitted dress hugging the contours of her shapely hips...

Alarmed at the realization of his descent—and the accompanying depravity of his thoughts—Din's eyes darted upwards. Almost instantly he could feel the rush of blood flooding his face and neck.

_Thank the stars for the anonymity of helms._

"Omera," he winced at the crack in his voice, boot catching dirt as he moved to make his presence known.

"Oh!" The widow startled, turning with a gasp at the sound of her name. From the looks of her, she'd been knee-deep lost in thoughts of her own. (His awkwardness be cursed.) With a breathy chuckle, she rubbed at the meat of her arms, mimicking his stride as they both glided forward to meet at the middle.

"I'm here."

_Really? That's the best he could do?_

She lowered her eyes with a smile. "Me too."

A long beat followed the nervous exchange.

Omera stood with what could only be described as a look of expectancy, while Din, perplexed by her summons—and growing more and more self-conscious with each passing second—could only stare very blankly back.

"I came as quick as I could," she offered gently.

Bless her. Din could tell she was doing all she could to navigate his stilted social skills.

"I—" he struggled to articulate a response. "I only just found out. Winta relayed your message."

"Message?"

"Something important you wanted to tell...me…" his voice trailed off as a look of _utter confusion_ settled on the widow's pretty face. "Winta said," he blinked behind his visor. "She said…wait. You didn't ask to see me?"

"Winta said you wanted to see _me_."

Din's brain did a double take.

"I don't."

_Oh curse it all to the seventh layer of hell—_

"That is...I mean," his words stammered in the haste to correct himself. "Of course I want to see you! I—I always want to see you. I just didn't have a specified reason for seeing you _right now_. Not that it isn't nice seeing you now..."

_Dank farrik, where was a sniper shot to the skull when you needed one?_

He was two seconds from whipping out his blaster and just offing _himself_ , when a soft, slightly muffled giggle stilled his tortured thoughts. Glancing down, Omera chewed at her bottom lip, face alight with mirth.

She didn't _look_ aggrieved at least.

"Winta said you had something to give me," amusement fading from her face as an unnatural hesitancy set in. "Something special?"

It was then The Mandalorian caught her tossing a quick, sidelong glance off to the left; a glance she tried masking with a series of rapid-fire blinks. Curious, he trailed her gaze to a stack of crates grouped neatly against the wall, the same bins used for barricading himself inside when he and the womp rat stayed with the village overnight.

His body jerked at what he discovered there.

Resting conspicuously atop the largest of the wooden crates—and practically glowing against the shadowy overcast of the room—was a white, freshly picked wildflower from Sorgan's fields.

A flower he didn't pick.

A flower she'd thought was for her.

_Ah, hell._

If he'd been quicker on the uptake, if he were smoother or smarter, he could have charmed or bluffed his way out of the hole, the ditch, the bottomless _abyss_ of social ineptitude he'd fallen into. As it were, he hadn't and he was neither, and he could see from Omera's crestfallen features she _knew_.

The flower _wasn't_ from him.

" _Winta_ ," her sigh laced with exasperation as a realization set in. "I am so, _so_ sorry about this."

She _was sorry?_

"Winta's nine, you see. With a bit of a _wild_ imagination…" She shook her head, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. "I apologize if you're offended."

_Offended?_

If he wasn't such a _bantha brain_ , he would have picked that flower _himself_. Instead, a little girl had stepped in and taken the initiative where he, the adult, had utterly _failed_.

He wasn't offended. He was _ashamed_.

And dammit it all, he was _not_ going to blow this twice.

Swallowing hard—and before he could lose his nerve—Din walked over, plucked the flower from its perch, and stood once more before the widow, twirling the stem of the delicate blossom between his fingertips. The pink of her embarrassment deepened as he held the flower in offering between them.

"Winta's right. This is for you."

A grin of triumph flashed across his face as her gaze followed the flickering movements of the bloom. He tilted his head, catching her dark, expressive eyes with his own.

"She just moves a little faster than I do."

And when she raised a hand to retrieve the boon, he caught it with his free one, bringing it to rest lightly against his beskar-plated chest.

Yeah. Winta was _definitely_ his favorite of the village kids.


End file.
